


it is (october)

by cloudburst



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6496612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon likes this <em>Raphael.</em></p><p>It is 1952.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it is (october)

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote 90% of this at work don't hate me. I don't normally write in a narrative style so idk how this is ?? i was going for a nostalgic-ish feel. 
> 
> cw: mentioned homophobia
> 
> please correct my spanish

It was a hot day—July heat, to be exact, with the sound of Clary's bright pink bubblegum popping in his ear, sidewalk with the ability to fry an egg, and his momma telling him dinner would be chilled. It was a day of bright colors and soda-pop; his collar was not offering reprieve from the sun, only worsening the condition, really, and Clary's laughter whilst he guzzled the Coca-Cola was wholly unnecessary. 

His best friend was ringing like a bell, hair tossed over her shoulder and head thrown back, with her hands gripping the too bright strawberry milkshake, when he saw him for the first time. Simon wasn't one to believe in fate. It wasn't dramatic, or life-changing, even. It was just a moment—a definite time-stamp of _then_ he would always be able to recall. 

This guy walked into the diner with the confidence of a businessman, and the looks of a casanova—if Simon could say so himself. He couldn't help but stare at the dark, slicked back hair accompanied by a beat up leather jacket—or the boots that came to mid-calf, blackish jeans tucked inside. He screamed for Simon's immediate attention. 

The cashier greeted him: _"Raphael!"_

_"Hola, Carlitos."_

"Simon."

A beat—the crashing of a drum, and a moment. 

"Simon?"

The moment ended. Clary's nails were the color of her milkshake as they vied for his attention; her dress was the color of the drab yellow diner walls. It was all atrocious. 

"Yeah?" He sounded short of breath. He was going to be sick— _was sick. These thoughts were—_ He'd repeat himself—after a moment: "Yeah?"

Clary laughs. The fleeting captivation was over, for a second only. Her bright hair shifts with her as she leans forward to poke his cheek. She is so colorful and light, yet his attention reverts back to a colorless void by the register. 

His skin tingles where she'd poked it; but it's natural, he thinks. 

"I just wanted to see if you were okay." She takes a sip of her milkshake as she leans back into the red cushion of the booth. "You seem a little... out of it?"

Simon smiles; he doesn't notice _'Raphael'_ look up—the captivation gone completely now, his teeth flashing at Clary as he shakes his head. A strand of hair falls to his forehead; it's an isolated incident. "Is that a question or a statement? Because honestly, you don't seem too sure." 

Looking downward to the table, she grins— I'm not really." —then takes another sip; the purple straw bends with her mouth. "Sure, that is. Not really sure. _Anyways!_ " She continues before she can be cut off, voice flowing and eyes smiling. "There's this party tomorrow night."

* * *

After the sun has set, Simon sits at his window; it's open, cigarette dangling from his fingers—ash falling to the ground below. And the moon is bright tonight.

It's 1952, his momma had told him. The immigrants all wanted to come here, and the homosexuals wanted to ruin good traditional principles in a good traditional country. That's sodomy, she'd said. _'There ain't no love for that kind.'_

He'd pray there wasn't any love for _'Raphael.'_ It was wrong, he thought, but _god_ was it right. And he'd prayed that night, dying words like bursting stars upon his lips, that he wasn't the only man his momma could only half love. Because it was 1952, and his heart stuttered when he thought of the boy from the diner, and he choked on breath when he thought of his lips. 

Simon's skin tingled, and his eyes watered; it was rain, as he'd deny tears to say. 

And it was 1952.

* * *

"Why—"

_"Hola, Raphael!"_

He leaned on the counter, whispering something to Carlitos. It was funny; and all Simon could see was a smile brighter than Clary's bright green nails. 

_"Quien es el niño que me está mirando fijamente todo el tiempo, mano?"_

_"Simon?"_

_"Eso es su nombre?"_

_"Por qué te importa?_

Raphael leaned against the counter. Simon thought he heard his name, and for a moment, he'd have sworn Raphael's cheeks were the same shade of Clary's strawberry milkshake. 

"—weren't—"

Simon stares—doesn't mean to really. Eye contact is fleeting. Simon stares and Clary sighs. Her hand is on his arm, and he finally looks to her. "Why weren't you at Magnus' party the other day?"

"I was busy." It's a simple response, if not easily believable. His shirt collar still does nothing for the heat; Simon is beginning to think it's perpetual, and the nausea inducing colors of the diner continue to lose their appeal. Clary's bubblegum pops, and he sips his Coca-Cola bottle. _How stereotypical._

"Anyways, that guy over by the register was there. He asked about you for some reason, like do you two ever know each other? Because I—" 

"He asked about me?"

Clary sighs. She drums her nails across the tabletop in irritation. They both know she's faking it. They're neon green, but the index finger is blue. "No, Simon. I just made that up." Her pink skirt shifts with her legs beneath the booth. _POP._ "I really enjoy making up rumors about the Santiagos." 

"Santiago?" Simon's eyes widen. His breath is stolen. 

"God, you're slow." She only shakes her head—hair like waterfalls of fire cascading around her shoulders, and a smile like a dull knife.

* * *

"I need your help in dealing with—"

_"Spit it out."_

"—in dealing with, this _thing_ , it's—"

He takes a breath; it's only momentary reprieve. 

"I think I like someone."

There's a sigh, subtle shake of the head, and a raised eyebrow. Eyes like ice regard him casually—like he's not hanging himself out to dry. It is 1952; he knows. 

"You _like_ someone?"

There's a slight stutter, and then a pause before steeled determination propels. _"A guy."_

And suddenly it all makes sense to Alec Lightwood—why Simon had come to _him._ "Oh."

* * *

He'd said, be careful. They won't accept you if they know. Above all, _just be careful._

And it was easy to be, with stolen looks in the diner—across from Clary, but burning like the desert sun where he sat. Santiago— _Raphael Santiago_ ; he even looked the part of the renowned Mexican movie star his father had been. But even better, he looked the part of Simon's downfall. 

And it was a hot day—August heat, to be exact, with the sound of Clary's bright pink bubblegum popping in his ear, sidewalk with the ability to fry an egg, and his momma telling him dinner would be chilled. But this time it was different. 

Raphael had said hello.

* * *

It went on from there; it improved, in Simon's opinion—increase like the ascent of Everest. 

_"Shouldn't you be in school, Simon?"_

_"I dunno. Shouldn't you?"_

Cue a laugh Simon believed he would die for—anyone would. He'd still his beating heart for that laugh. He would—take the breath right out of his chest. And with his hair slicked back, leather jacket folding snugly around his torso, Raphael smiled. 

_"Touché, pussycat."_

Sometimes he'd think they were flirting, in the sticky August heat.

* * *

"Raphael, huh?"

Simon looked to the counter; eyes were already on him. A smile danced around pretty lips. 

"What?"

Purple nails drummed across the table. There was laughter. 

"Nothing, Simon."

* * *

Summer bled to fall—and fall dragged on. It was homecoming night; Simon had no plans, and Clary was with a blond she'd met waiting tables at the diner. Jace, he thought?

He could hear Raphael: "Indecisive even in thought, you idiot." And he'd definitely, though secretly and a little shamed, pretended there was an affectionate edge; that idea of tone always took his breath away, and pulled his heart from chest to throat. (And there was one in reality, always.)

But the phone was ringing, and he lifted his hand from his thigh to grab the battered red contraption on his dresser. 

"Hello—"

_"Come outside. Let's go for a ride."_

"Raphael?"

_"Come on, Simon."_

A laugh on Simon's end followed, and Raphael would compare it to the cloudburst from dark skies—his demise. 

And Simon hung up, because sneaking out the window was easy, but taming the crashing waves within his chest and trampling the flowers within his ribcage—growing toward the light that was Raphael—

Well, that was the difficult part. 

Climbing in the passenger seat, his breath quickened—heart accelerated as was standard, and Raphael's flat face turned to the photograph of adoration—smile pulling up the corners of his mouth, eyes crinkling at the edges. He was perfect, Simon thought. 

"Ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

And he was. Raphael drove, hands gripping the wheel—Simon's eyes stayed to the side; he couldn't help it. (Raphael didn't mind.) 

It wasn't warm. Simon's collar didn't stick to his sweat covered neck. There was no sidewalk, and he wouldn't be eating dinner with his momma. Raphael parked, and it was cool as they opened the car doors—stepping onto the damp field, Simon's chest crashing. There was no bubblegum pop, and he was liberated—Raphael's eyes smiling more than he himself ever could—pulling Simon to the hood of the old GTO. 

They leaned against it, engine warm, but Simon's clammy palms forever warmer. 

Raphael turned to face him; they were shoulder to shoulder. His lips smiled too. "It's October, Simon." 

An agreement comes out as a drawn out question, Simon's eyebrow raising. "Yeah...?"

"It's October and I—" He laughs; Raphael laughs, at himself and the situation—the depravity of it all that he wouldn't change for a moment. "It's October and I think I'm in love with you." 

Simon's heart pounds. Then it stops. This is a joke, but the flowers growing amongst his lungs wish for it to be true—all of it. "What do the two things have to do with each other, Raph? I—"

Simon's squeezing his eyes closed. This is a joke. But his clammy hands aren't the only warm thing; his lips are. This isn't being careful as Alec advised—this is reckless, but he loves it. 

And the kiss was short and unexpected, but when he opens his eyes, Simon sees the yellow of the diner and hears the pop of Clary's bubblegum. He tastes tobacco and root beer. 

He thinks that this is true contentedness, with Raphael looking back at him. "I think I'm in love with you too."

_The stars laugh as they kiss again, and it is 1952._

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what ya think. ((:


End file.
